Epilogue

“Good morning, Watson,” said the voice of Sherlock Holmes, “Isn’t it time you got up? The weather is far too glorious to be lying around all day.”

Opening my eyes I was met with the sight of a coffered ceiling painted with scenes from the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. I raised myself up on my elbows. Light streamed in from the small windows, pooling into puddles on the drab wooden floorboards. Looking around I saw a large fireplace and the table which had been used in the seance. I was back in the Chamber of the East of the East.

Holmes was kneeling at my side, looking at me with eyes of wonder.

“How did you do it, Watson? How did you bring us back?”

“Do you remember London?”

“London?” he muttered, his brow drawn. “No. I only remember your voice calling out to me.”

With his assistance I got to my feet. Every one of my joints ached. It was terribly cold there in the Chamber of the East of the East, and Holmes’s breath came out in white puffs of steam.

Professor Moriarty lay curled up on the floor before the fireplace, clad in his black cloak. I bent down and shook his shoulder, whereupon a shudder traveled through his frame.

“Professor Moriarty!” called Holmes, and this time the old man sat up with a jerk and blinked at us.

“Holmes? Dr. Watson?”

“How do you feel?” asked Holmes.

“Not as poorly as might be expected. But my word, how cold it is in here!”

After helping him to his feet we looked around at our surroundings. All was still. Uncountable motes of dust floated in the rays from the windows.

If I had not been able to wake Holmes, would I have been trapped, falling through that pitch-black waterfall for the rest of time? I was reminded of Moriarty’s claim at the Black Gala, that that world was only a detective story, and that he was an agent dispatched by the author to bring it to an end.

This world is but a shadow of London.

Beyond that crumbling city, I saw the figure of an author hunched over his desk, writing the final chapter which would bring his detective novel series to a close, and burying the famous detective and the city which had been brought to life by his own pen forever. It was like looking at my own distorted reflection in a cracked mirror .

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked.

“No,” replied the Professor, shaking his head. “Yet I recall hearing your voice calling to me.”

“We were in London, Professor, in a living nightmare.”

Had we really come back from that place? And if we had, how long had we been on the other side? Based on the appearance of our surroundings it had not been so long, certainly not centuries. But the mystical aura of the Chamber of the East of the East was no more, and now it seemed just like any other empty old room.

At that moment there came the sound of footsteps rushing down the hallway.

“We have a guest,” remarked Holmes, turning his eyes toward the doorway just as it burst open, and in through the portal flew none other than Irene Adler.

I was later to learn that, following my departure for the Chamber of the East of the East, she and the rest of the Musgrave household had kept vigil outside Hurlstone through the night. As the first rays of dawn crested the horizon, the ghostly apparitions of Holmes and Professor Moriarty which had till that moment occupied the grounds had suddenly vanished, and a dead hush fell over the estate. It was Irene Adler whose quick intuition alerted her that this must herald our return, and without hesitation she ran into the manor.

“I knew it!” she yelled when she saw us.

“Ah, Miss Adler. Good morning to you,” said Holmes.

For a second she stood there agog, but she soon regained her usual ferocious deportment.

“How could you be so reckless?” she demanded, striding forward.

“Well,” stammered Holmes, “Being that I was in a slump, I supposed I had nothing to lose.”

“Nothing to lose? Nothing to lose?” snarled Irene. “Do you know how utterly despondent I have felt tonight?”

But I hardly heard another accusing word of hers once I saw Mary standing in the doorway. Her pale face betrayed the night of fear and dread she had passed through, and yet she strode directly across the room with dignified composure, her hair glistening in the golden sunlight like the morning dew.

“You really did come back.”

“Of course I did. I promised, didn’t I?”

As I drew her into my arms I saw those London memories whirling around us like a merry-go-round. Scenes from another life flew past my eyes, fading in the morning light: Mary’s funeral, my parting with Holmes, the lonely garret, the Black Gala. The dream was taking its last bow.

Only then was I certain that I had come back. With a smile at me, Mary turned toward Holmes, who was hanging his head a little apologetically, and walked briskly up to him to give him a hug. We were all of us surprised, but none of us more than Holmes. At first he stiffened in shock, before he placed an awkward hand on her back.

“I am sorry, Mary. For all of it.”

“Never mind, Mr. Holmes. It is all past,” she said in a gentle tone. “All is forgiven.”

　　　　　　　◯

Those are the facts of the case of the Chamber of the East of the East.

But that of course was not the end. Upon our return from Hurlstone we were swept up in the aftermath of the Richborough trial. I could scarce remember any spectacle to rival it; a number of spiritualists had been arrested, and in the confusion of the riot Madame Richborough had made her escape. People claimed to have spotted her lurking at the depot in Shijō-Ōmiya, or boarding a launch at the Gojō pier, but her whereabouts remain a mystery to this day.

Another rumour had it that Lord St. Simon had effected her escape, a rumour which he steadfastly denied. By all accounts he had been struck dumb with astonishment by the apparitions and lay insensible in the gallery while the riot was going on. It was a remarkably pathetic display for the self-styled patron of spiritualism, though I suppose not an entirely unexpected one. In any case, Lord St. Simon could not afford to stand idle after such a commotion, and issued a notice that he would have no further dealings with spiritualism, before retiring to the countryside. No doubt the heightened scrutiny of the police had played a very considerable role in his decision.

Neither did we escape suspicion. A full courtroom gallery had witnessed the ghostly figures of Holmes and Moriarty, and it was well known that Holmes of London was something akin to scripture amongst the spiritualists. And there was the inconvenient fact that Madame Richborough had addressed me directly preceding her escape.

“You’ll just have to bluff them,” shrugged Holmes.

We were summoned to Shinchō Yard for questioning, but the inspectors could not explain the trick behind the phantoms, nor any link besides coincidence between the author and the spiritualist interest in The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes, nor any evidence that we had assisted Madame Richborough’s flight, and soon enough the investigation was quietly dropped.

Afterwards the winds began to change, thanks in large part due to the efforts of Irene Adler, Inspector Lestrade, and the Musgraves. Without the protective aegis of Lord St. Simon, and with its most prominent practitioner on the run, the spiritualist movement which had roiled Kyoto withered away. As spring approached, that once oppressive atmosphere which had smothered the city began to lift, and by the time that the plum blossoms had opened in Kitano Tenmangu the trial of Madame Richborough was only a distant memory.

And in the later half of March, the following notice appeared in all the newspapers of Kyoto:

The RETIREMENT of Sherlock Holmes is hereby RETRACTED

Will solve all cases, great and small, for the benefit of the citizens of Kyoto.

Apply Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective, 221B, Teramachi Street

The general reaction to that advertisement was derision. Scarcely two months had passed since his retirement announcement, and one could hardly expect anyone to take it seriously. At first he had hardly any clients, and those who did seek his aid came bearing only the most trifling matters. But Holmes took each case as earnestly as if it were his last, and as he steadily built up a list of successes, little reports of his doings would begin to appear in the pages of the broadsheets. It was his solution to the curious death of a professor of philosophy at Tanukidanisan Fudōin which announced to the world that Sherlock Holmes was well and truly back.

It was only natural that people wondered―how had Sherlock Holmes made his triumphant return?

But no matter how insistently the press badgered him for an answer, Holmes would never speak of the details of how he had unknotted his slump, and instead would airily say that he had prayed every day to Benzaiten, or wished upon a daruma. In truth there was no logical way to explain the facts of the case of the Chamber of the East of the East. Far simpler to chalk it up to deities and daruma.

Nor would Sherlock Holmes speak of that room. It was as if to him the mystery had passed out of the world for good.

The same attitude could be observed in Professor Moriarty. One day I visited Teramachi Street to find him standing in the back garden, feeding the voluminous notes he had kept during his slump, as well as the miniature model of London, into a bonfire.

I stood beside him and watched London turn to ash.

“You are sure this is for the best, then?”

“I am. I need it no longer,” said he, squinting his eyes in the smoke.

　　　　　　　◯

The gently swaying carriage bore me towards 221B Teramachi.

May had come in with blossoming trees. It was an unbelievably gorgeous morning, the kind of picnic weather which only comes around so many times in a lifetime. There was a faint scent of flowers on the cold wind which brushed past my cheeks, and the pedestrians who walked along the street examining the shop windows were dressed in springtime finery.

When I arrived at Teramachi Street I found Mrs. Hudson knee-deep in preparations for the picnic; baskets were stacked high in the foyer.

“You don’t seriously mean to bring all of this, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Have you never hosted a picnic, dear Doctor? Why, this is only the minimum. And besides, consider the guests. Besides you and Mr. Holmes, there are Mary, Miss Adler, Professor Moriarty, and Inspector Lestrade to think of. No, as long as there is breath in my lungs, no one will say that I put on an unsatisfactory picnic!”

“And you expect me to haul all of this up Mt. Daimonji?”

“Never you fret, we will all share the burden,” she said happily. “How wonderful that the weather is so fine.”

In Holmes’s room sunshine was streaming through the blinds. Professor Moriarty was sitting in the armchair before the fireplace, and on the side table Watson the goldfish was floating contentedly in his glittering fishbowl. He had come out of the punishing Kyoto winter none the worse for wear and in fact had an increased kind of stateliness to show for his ordeal; I predicted that the doughty specimen would go on to live a long, fulfilled life.

“Good morning, Watson,” said Professor Moriarty, sprinkling some fish food into the bowl, “What lovely weather it is for a picnic.”

“Good morning.”

“Did you see the baskets? Mrs. Hudson is in fine form today.”

The Professor himself seemed to be in high spirits himself; he wore breezy white linen and a fastidiously fastened pair of gaiters, and a glossy straw hat rested on his lap. He still kept his rooms on the third floor, but of late he often stayed at the Musgrave estate for business. I had not seen him since his knighting in April, and it was apparent that the intervening weeks had changed him greatly. His face was rosy and his expression was mild, and his eyes were no longer narrow and piercing, but filled with a generous wisdom.

“Holmes is still sleeping,” said he, indicating the bedroom door. “I suppose his recent exertions have quite worn him out.”

A month had passed since Holmes retracted his retirement. It must be noted that at about the same time, someone else had experienced quite a comeback. Reginald Musgrave had extended an offer to the Professor to take up again some work, which had laid dormant since the death of his predecessor, and presently Moriarty was making ready to revive the Moon Rocket project. It was for this reason that he made frequent trips back and forth from Hurlstone.

I sat on the settee and remarked, “How is your work proceeding?”

“I’ve only just begun. Cartwright is helping me review the data from Robert Musgrave’s era. For now our means are limited, but I have a few ideas floating around in my head, and in time I intend to rebuild a smaller version of the launchpad. Ah, and I am repurposing the Chamber of the East of the East into the Moon Rocket project office.”

“You astonish me,” I said. “That’s quite brave of you.”

“It was Miss Rachel’s idea. No one has seen or heard the slightest hint of anything supernatural in that room since we came out alive. I can’t fathom now what it was that drew us to that room. Now that the mystical powers it once possessed are gone, let us not abandon it to the shadows, but rather chase them out with light.”

“I believe you are right. That will be for the best.”

His words were filled with a tranquil certainty, and as I listened to him speak I felt his sense of joy wash over me as well. His pupil Cartwright had recovered from that temporary mania of spiritualism and was now back to his old assiduous habits in the lab.

“I have my work again, what more could I possibly need?,” smiled Moriarty.

“Sir Musgrave and Miss Rachel are quite enthusiastic about the project. I am under no illusions that I will live to see mankind travel into the heavens, of course. But I have no doubt that by the time that their children are grown, humanity will have set foot on the surface of the moon.

“Now,” said he, slapping his hands on his knees, “I think it is past time that we wake Holmes.”

He got to his feet and knocked on the door of Holmes’s bedroom. A groan of protest came from the other side, but Moriarty gave no sign that he had heard it and blithely continued his assault on the door.

“I assume Mary will be joining us for the picnic?” he asked me. “I wondered that she was not with you.”

“She is with Miss Adler,” I replied, stepping to the window and pulling up the blinds. “I suppose they are not finished yet.”

On the other side of the street I could see the office of Irene Adler. Mary was pacing back and forth in front of the window, speaking with great animation. At length she glanced my way, and upon seeing me in the window smiled and waved her hand.

　　　　　　　◯

Sherlock Holmes was as cross as a crab when we finally roused him from his bed. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a grey nightgown over his flannel pajamas.

“Ah, Watson,” he muttered sulkily, heaving himself down into his armchair, where his eyes promptly rolled into the back of his head.

“Come on, Holmes, there’s no time to lose. We’ve got to get ready for the picnic.”

“Picnic?” he groaned. “Leave me here. I bid you the most pleasant of afternoons.”

“That simply will not do. We agreed upon the date,” said Professor Moriarty reprovingly. “Imagine how crestfallen Mrs. Hudson would be.”

“I am as shriveled up as a worn out washcloth,” responded Holmes. “Do you realize how many cases I have solved this week alone? They have all been of the greatest interest, and I have hardly had a wink of sleep!”

“Perhaps you should turn some of them down then.”

“What! And let them be snatched up by Irene Adler?”

“This is your own fault,” I said wearily. “You are always griping and groaning. You complained when you were in the depths of the slump, and now that you have regained your former self you are complaining still. Why can’t you simply be grateful that you are back to solving cases again?”

“That is easy to say for you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You only stop by when you please, and help when the case interests you,” he snapped, getting up and striding over to the mantelpiece to claim his favourite pipe, never mind that he was supposed to be getting ready for the picnic.

“So, Watson,” he said as he packed tobacco into the bowl, “When do you plan to resume writing in the Strand? I’m sure your loyal readers must be impatient for your return.”

“I met with the editors just yesterday. The series will return next month.”

“My congratulations,” he snorted.

“As if you have ever had the smallest interest in my writings.”

“That’s not true. After all, without Watson there is no Holmes.” He inhaled from his pipe with a cocksure grin.

The bell rang downstairs. We heard the door open, and Mrs. Hudson exchanging a few delighted words, before Irene Adler and Mary appeared at Holmes’s doorway. They were both dressed for a light day of hiking, wearing boots on their feet and wide straw hats adorned with flowers. But when they saw Holmes standing there smoking a pipe in his pajamas, their eyes opened wide with astonishment.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have only just woken up, you see.”

“Then perhaps you should have gotten up on time,” said Irene Adler.

“I have been overworked, my dear Miss Adler,” replied Holmes with a scowl. “I have been away from detecting for a year. One can hardly expect me to regain my old form after so short a time. No, I had meant to take things easy. But scarcely had I been knighted than the clients came stampeding. Really, had I known what a nuisance this would be I would have much preferred Her Majesty refrained.”

“How can you say such things?” frowned Irene Adler. “Don’t you understand what an honour you have received?”

“I did not become a detective in order to become a knight,” Holmes said loftily, throwing out his chest. “The work is its own reward.”

I glanced at his desk and saw, carelessly scattered among Holmes’s checkbook and crumpled pieces of blotting paper, the medal he had received from Her Majesty.

“That’s the old Holmes we know,” whispered Mary in my ear.

“He’s beside himself with satisfaction, I can tell,” I whispered back. “He’s only thrown it there so he doesn’t seem too pleased with himself. Sometimes I wish that he would be more honest about it.”

“So do I, so do I!”

“What are you two whispering about there?” cried Holmes with a glare, while we feigned looks of innocence.

Mrs. Hudson came to the doorway, obviously irate.

“Now you get dressed this instant, Mr. Holmes. The day’s wasting!”

Mrs. Hudson had been planning this picnic on Mr. Daimonji for weeks now, and she would not allow anyone, not even the most celebrated detective on earth, to ruin her plans. She plucked the pipe right out of Holmes’s mouth and marched him straight into his bedroom. While he was getting dressed, Professor Moriarty went to fetch two broughams from a nearby carriage house, onto which we loaded that mountain of picnic baskets, blankets, and parasols.

“With all this, we could picnic up there for a week!” laughed Irene Adler, half in amazement.

By and by Sherlock Holmes came slouching down the stairs, wearing a felt hat and a surly glower. The ladies rode in the first carriage, and we men took the second.

“Not so fast, Holmes! What about Inspector Lestrade?”

“That is too bad, for him. To Mt. Daimonji!”

But just as the horses began to trot forward, we heard a voice shout desperately, “Wait for me!” We put our heads out the windows to see Inspector Lestrade running after us.

“You didn’t really mean to leave me behind, were you?” he said in an injured tone once he had boarded the carriage, wiping the sweat away with a handkerchief.

“That will teach you to be on time!” said Holmes with a chuckle.

The carriages rumbled up north past Marutamachi Street and along the long wall of the imperial palace. I looked out the window. A pleasant spring breeze was blowing, rustling the new leaves on the trees which looked over the palace wall, and as we passed the well-guarded gate I thought I saw, for the briefest of moments, the figure of Queen Victoria standing in the garden.

　　　　　　　◯

Not long after he came out of retirement, Sherlock Holmes was visited by an envoy of the Queen, who with an air of great deference handed him a letter and informed him that he, Irene Adler, and Professor Moriarty were to be admitted to orders of chivalry for their extraordinary accomplishments. Apparently the sudden and extraordinary decision had come directly from none other than Her Majesty.

The ceremony took place early in April, at the peak of the cherry blossoms. How clearly I remember the sight of the white petals spiraling through the air as the carriage bore us in our finest clothes towards the palace. Mary and I were on pins and needles. Though it was not we who were being honoured, we had never set foot in the palace before.

We were received by Her Majesty in an audience chamber, where on a carpet of reddest velvet she conferred the accolades upon Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler, and James Moriarty. Sunlight fell sparkling through the windows upon the three and upon the audience which included such distinguished members of the government that even Holmes was obliged to look a little intimidated. Afterwards there was a garden party to which Inspector Lestrade and Shinchō Yard, the Musgraves, and Mrs. Hudson had been invited.

At long last it was all over, and the celebrants began to drift their separate ways. As Mary and I left the audience chamber, the Lord Chamberlain hurried towards us.

“Dr. Watson!” he called, “Might you spare a moment?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“It is a matter of great importance,” he said quietly. “Pray come with me.”

His words were courteous, but his grave tone was such that it brooked no discussion. Mary and I looked at each other. For a detective such as Sherlock Holmes such unexpected occurrences were a daily occurrence, but I could not fathom what he could want with a simple doctor and biographer. But the chamberlain only looked at us without further explanation, awaiting our reply.

“I will be mingling in the garden,” said Mary to me, with her usual tact.

I nodded to her then said to the chamberlain, “I am at your disposal, my lord.”

The chamberlain led me deeper into the palace. On and on the corridor continued, and soon merry voices of the party were far behind us. At first we passed gentlemen and ladies in waiting, but each of them upon seeing us bowed and quickly withdrew. There came the sounds of doors closing one after the next, and soon we were alone: at least, I could not tell if they were truly gone, or simply taking pains to mask their presence. It was an unnatural silence, so thick that I heard only my own footfalls upon the carpet.

“Might I inquire as to the nature of this matter?” I said at last, unable to bear the stillness any longer.

“I’m afraid that is not for me to say,” replied the chamberlain in a faint voice, not even turning to look at me. Past walls lined with portraits and landscapes we walked, until we reached a dome-ceilinged hall, through which we passed into another corridor, at the end of which lay a set of immense double doors.

“If you please, Dr. Watson,” said the chamberlain, swinging the doors open wide and closing them after me.

I found myself in the palace library. The walls to my front and right consisted entirely of massive bookcases which reached all the way up to the ceiling, fitted with sliding ladders; and to my left was a large window through which I could see a single cherry tree blossoming on the lawn of a lovely garden.

A long table stood in the middle of the room, and there sat a small woman, perhaps the age of my own mother, facing away from me. So engrossed in her research was she that my entry seemed to have gone unnoticed.

“Pardon me,” I ventured, whereupon she paused and turned around. It was Queen Victoria.

“Your Majesty,” I said, my posture stiffening, “I am John Watson.”

“We thank you for coming,” said she, nodding graciously. “Come here. We wish to show you something.”

I bowed and approached her. On the table were handwritten papers sorted into several stacks. They were all in quite poor condition, and some of them seemed to have been ripped apart and then meticulously pasted together again. Her Majesty picked one of them up and handed it to me.

For several years, I have, with his permission, presented accounts of the several cases of Sherlock Holmes in The Strand Magazine. These accounts of his many adventures have gained an ardent readership from all around Kyoto; it is no exaggeration to say that the name "Sherlock Holmes" is celebrated across the land.

Yes, to observe Sherlock Holmes is to observe genius at work. Yet it was not the efforts of Mr. Holmes alone which have won his current renown.

For a moment I was frozen in astonishment.

It was the manuscript of The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes: the same which I had spent those months locked up in that London garret writing, and the same which had been tossed into the air and torn to shreds by Professor Moriarty and the crowd at the Black Gala.

“How did Your Majesty―?” I gasped hoarsely. “I thought London was just an illusion!”

“It is no illusion. It became material while you were trapped in the Chamber of the East of the East―in some ways more material than this world we inhabit. And if you had not returned from it in one piece, it all might have vanished like the wisps of a dream.”

“Vanished?”

“The Chamber of the East of the East is something that should not be,” she continued softly, “But we do not have the power to remove it, and so we required that of you and your friends Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty. We regret what we had to do to you. It may be no consolation, but we were able to salvage your manuscript. We hope that you will accept it.”

I stared at her for a long moment of dumbfounded silence. It felt as if time had stopped here in this library deep within the palace.

Her Majesty rose slowly from her chair and approached the window, looking with a bright, tender gaze at the blossoming cherry tree. She looked much smaller and frailer now than she had at the ceremony.

I joined her at the window, and now looking at the garden noticed that there was a single statue on the lawn. It depicted a small girl looking up at the boughs of the tree, her arms outstretched like a bird taking flight. Strangely, her face reminded me of Miss Rachel and Irene Adler and Mary all at once. The tree branches swayed in the wind, scattering white petals in the air.

For some strange reason I felt like I had witnessed this very scene before, perhaps in a dream.

“If we had not returned, what would you have done?” I asked.

“Our fate would have been the same as yours,” she answered with no hesitation. “Our role is but to observe, nothing more.”

　　　　　　　◯

We laboured up the trail behind Ginkakuji towards the summit of Mt. Daimonji. Within the dense forest the air was cool, but before long sweat was pouring down my face. It was the oldest among us, Mrs. Hudson and Professor Moriarty, whose legs carried them the quickest. I suppose that Mrs. Hudson did pull herself up and down the seventeen steps at Baker Street all day, and during his slump Professor Moriarty had spent his nights strolling all round Kyoto. Even Holmes, who had been so reluctant to come, was having a lively debate with Irene Adler as they rapidly strode along.

Hearing Inspector Lestrade and I labouring behind them, Mary turned around.

“Are you all right, John? Shall we stop for a break?”

“No, you go on ahead,” I gasped, waving her on. “We shall take our time.”

Lestrade set down his load at his feet and wiped away his sweat with a handkerchief. Everyone was carrying their share, but each basket was quite a burden by itself.

“You seem to be keeping yourself busy, Lestrade. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t see your name mentioned in the papers.”

“Busy doesn’t begin to describe it!” he began, with an exaggeratedly exasperated tone, but his face was positively glowing. “My hands were full enough dealing with Miss Adler before Mr. Holmes resumed his career. Between the two of them they have solved so many cases that the perpetrators are practically queueing up in front of Shinchō Yard. With all the work that’s piled up I’m not even sure I should be here today having a hike up Mt. Daimonji.”

“Couldn’t you just let some of the other inspectors share the glory?”

“Never!” said he with a smile.

A strong breeze shivered the treetops, and the rustling leaves made a sound like a distant waterfall. Despite the hard exertion of the climb, I felt refreshed when we finally arrived at the fire pits.

“Now that’s what you call a view!” said Lestrade approvingly. A cool breeze whistled across the sheer slope, sending undulating ripples through the green grass which surrounded the stone fireplaces. Every year at Obon, the fireplaces would be kindled, emblazoning a giant dai character across the summer nightscape.

From the slope we had a clear view of the entire mist-shrouded city. In the foothills of Mt. Daimonji was the fortress-like college town, surrounded by a little belt of forest groves. Across the lazily flowing Kamo River were the dense woods of the royal palace; the rest of the valley floor was covered by an endless carpet of stone and brick, like the model city which Professor Moriarty had constructed.

“Watson! Over here!” called Sherlock Holmes, waving his arms.

The weather was glorious, and Mrs. Hudson’s picnic did not disappoint. We sat on blankets enjoying sandwiches and scones with tea. Mrs. Hudson looked upon her handiwork with satisfaction while Holmes and Irene Adler held a passionate debate. Miss Adler had brought up a counterfeiting case which Holmes had recently solved and was poking holes in his reasoning, which Holmes of course did not take kindly to. In the heat of their discussion neither of them seemed to notice what a beautiful day it was.

“I am not saying you do not have a point, my dear,” said Holmes, waving around a half-eaten sandwich. “But from my point of view…”

It was at that very moment that a shadow descended like a bolt from the blue, and before Holmes knew what was happening it had snatched the sandwich out of his hand. As it soared away I saw that it was a black kite.

“Thief!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “Villain!”

“Even you can’t catch them all, Mr. Holmes,” said Irene Adler, with a merry laugh.

　　　　　　　◯

I walked a short distance from the others along the face of Mt. Daimonji and sat down in a meadow. Not long afterward Mary wandered by.

“Isn’t the view grand?”

“Just lovely!” she said, plopping herself down beside me.

“I’ve been talking to Mary,” she began. And she told me that next month that their stories would resume serialization next month. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and The Case Book of Irene Adler: both had been placed on indefinite hiatus, and now they would be resumed at the same time. The editors at the Strand Magazine must surely be overjoyed.

“Without Mary there is no Adler,” I quipped, drawing a little smile from my wife.

We sat there in silence enjoying the breeze.

After a moment my wife whispered to me, “Thank God that you are back with me.”

“I would not be here now but for you,” I replied.

Come back, my dear. Promise me you’ll come back.

I knew that it had been her voice that had rescued me: without it, we would all have been consumed by that bottomless void.

“I have been thinking,” I said, “We have been convinced all this time that the Chamber of the East of the East held a kind of magic. But what if we have it the wrong way round?”

“What do you mean, the wrong way round?”

“What if our world itself was created by magic?” I said, feeling a strange certainty spread through me. “What if that chamber was a place that magic did not reach, like a rip in the fabric of our world? Then someone would have to mend it. And that is why we―”

I stopped, feeling her warm hand wrap around mine.

“Why don’t we lay that aside? It’s just like Mr. Holmes said: some mysteries ought not to be touched.”

After a moment’s thought, I nodded.

“Yes, you are right.”

“I just hope that the ‘magic’ will never come undone again,” said Mary, leaning against my shoulder and closing her eyes blissfully. On the wind I heard the gay banter of Holmes and the rest.

I had continued to work on the manuscript which the queen had entrusted to me. Scarcely could I imagine another book possessing as strange a history as this one did. The first four chapters had been written in that garret in London, and the remainder was now being written in my study in Kyoto. From one world to the next, through the Chamber of the East of the East and back again: thus was born The Triumphant Return of Sherlock Holmes. I had resolved that when it was finished I would present it to Her Majesty.

I heard her voice whisper in my head again: Our role is but to observe, nothing more.

The fog had dispersed, revealing the city below, which seemed to shine with a mysterious radiance.

There would be no shortage of cases for Sherlock Holmes to solve. And John Watson would be at his side to write them down.

For the triumphant return of Sherlock Holmes was also my own.